Under Attack
by Lyra Matsuoka
Summary: Hannibal and Clarice are alive and well and living at an exotic and glamerous local, but their children are being chased. The question is, by whom? Hannibal's daughter is too much like her parents to take this lying down...
1. Daddy's Little Girl

Hum de dum. So, this is a little fanfic idea that came to me while I  
was studying (which I should be doing right now if truth be told...)  
and I just had to write it down. This is a fluff prologe of sorts, mostly  
because I felt that things moved too abruptly without it. So enjoy, read and review, visit my webpage, visit my webpage, visit my webpage...  
  
Disclaimer: Everyone is just jealous because the voices talk to me!  
Actually, they spoke to Thomas Harris and gave him the   
wonderful ideas in 'Hannibal'. So it doesn't belong to  
poor old studious me.  
  
  
Under Attack  
by Lyra Matsuoka  
  
Chapter 1 : Daddy's Little Girl  
  
  
My first real memory is of my father. He was standing in the kitchen,  
and I had just learned to walk. Being quite taken with the process, I was   
toddling all over the house, and I finally arrived in the kitchen. What  
I remember is not the journey; I don't even remember what drew me to the   
kitchen. But I do remember clutching at the doorframe and waiting for him  
to look at me. And when he did, I smiled the biggest smile and he smiled back.  
He must have been cooking, but he walked right over to me, picked me up  
and twirled me over his head.  
  
"Where are you off too, Mischa the adventuress?"  
  
Not the kind of behavior you'd expect from a cannibal, is it?  
  
My name is Alexandra Michelle Lecter. I was born a year and a half   
after the Muskrat Farm encounter, to former Special Agent Clarice Starling  
and Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter. I swear he chose cannibalism simply  
because it lent itself to a clever nickname. But that is inconsequential.  
I was born a fraternal twin, and from the moment of our birth, my brother,   
Jack Dante Lecter and I were on the run.   
  
I became Mischa through the careful scheming of my parents. Both   
wanted my to have my own name, but the idea of not at least calling me  
Mischa was impossible to comprehend. So they gifted me with the middle  
name Michelle, pronounced Me-shell. Therefore, Mischa was a natural  
nickname, and I have been Mischa to my parents and brother since I was born.  
I have been Alex, Lexi, Lexa and Andra since, but Mischa is the name I  
am always tempted to give when people ask.  
  
Most of my memories are happy ones. I did not have a normal childhood,  
but then, few children whose parents are on the run from the FBI ever do.  
Go ahead, ask them sometime. If you can find one willing to talk to you.  
I grew up all over the world. I remember splashing my hands in the fountains   
at Trafalgar Square when I was three, of viewing Paris from the top of   
the Eiffel Tower at seven, and of running ideally through the streets of   
Florence at eleven.  
  
And always, there were my parents.  
  
I half idolized my mother. She was beautiful, confident, happy.   
She could shoot a gun and speak four languages. She could use a computer   
and dance beautifully. She was, to my young mind, something of a goddess.   
But she told wonderful stories, and never failed to tuck my brother and I   
in at night. No matter where she and my father had gone, no matter how   
late it was, I could always count on a kiss goodnight. As I grew older,   
lessons in martial arts, shooting a gun, and law enforcement came, and I   
was happy to learn. I inherited my mother's guts and determination, that   
was certain.  
  
My father and I seemed destined to be close. We shared interests, and   
he guided me carefully through a world of art, music and taste. He was a   
caring teacher, and I a willing pupil. He taught Jack as well, and the four   
of us were an inseparable family unit. By the age of five I understood why   
home schooling was an absolute necessity, and by the time I was fifteen, I   
wouldn't have had it any other way.  
  
I was an odd teenager. Not only did I never fight with my parents (what  
relatively sane person would? I am not genetically bred to be sane, and I   
wouldn't do it. Still won't) but I never even considered arguing with them.   
It was necessary to their safety that we not argue, and I was bound and   
determined not to undermine their safety. Besides, there wasn't any real point  
to it. My parents were almost always right, and I preferred to save my breath.  
It made sense to do so, and it taught me a great deal.   
  
My father rarely 'worried' about my brother and I. He did try and talk   
us into plastic surgery. My for my face, and my brother for his hand. My brother   
had six fingers on his right hand; my father's genetics had bred true. We both   
refused, and he never pressured us about our decision. I believe he understood   
that Jack was waiting for the right time to have that sixth finger removed, and   
that I was too much of a daredevil to care.  
  
When we were seventeen, my brother and I packed our bags and headed out   
to see the parts of the world we never had. My parents encouraged this, wanting   
us to venture out on our own. But my father was concerned for our safety. He   
warned us to stick together and to come home at once if anything out of the   
ordinary occurred. Being good and obedient children, we nodded solemnly, left the house and said our own goodbyes.  
  
I have not seen my brother in over a year.   
  
Cairo, Athens, and Tokyo whispered seductively of places yet to be seen   
and of friends yet to be met. And like my father, I followed. Wandering was a   
good pastime, hitchhiking was interesting, and I was happy. But I missed my   
brother, and I missed my parents desperately. So I was on my way home when a   
prying, nosy, to old for their own good, patriotic, concerned American called   
the FBI hotline.  
  
Did I mention I look exactly like my mother?  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
There you have it. Short, but for the most part a simple background thing.   
Now, you see the little box that you can type in? Goooood. Now, type   
something happy (comments, smilies, etc.) in said box!  
  
Peace, Love and All That Jazz,  
Lyra  
  



	2. The Chase

Hey there all! First Hannibal fanfic that came of reading   
several in one day and rereading the book and overall, just because  
I was thinking about Hannibal and Clarice after the book. So this is  
the product. Set twenty years after the end of the book. Enjoy, and  
please review! I need the feedback! I live for feedback!  
  
Disclaimer: No own Hannibal. Thomas Harris own, not poor college student.  
  
Under Attack  
by Lyra Matsuoka  
  
Rated PG-13  
Chapter 2 : The Chase  
  
All right, you son of a bitch. This is not part of the game plan.  
No matter what I've been taught, no one was supposed to recognize me.  
The one battle I win with my father *would* have to be about plastic   
surgery. I win, and now here I am, surrounded by FBI agents, yelling   
at me to come out with my hands up.  
  
Has Hell frozen over? No? Well, then, I'm not coming out. Who the  
*hell* do they think they are dealing with here?  
  
I can answer that question for myself. Hannibal Lecter's children  
are who they are dealing with. Well, child. My brother, Jack, is who  
I am worried about. God, I hope he's all right. We should have stayed  
together, we should have at least lived in the same town...I don't even  
know where he is living! Stupid, so stupid to have lost track of him.   
I am in Washington D.C. Silly place to come, considering who I look  
like and all the implications in one strand of my DNA. Memo to me, memo  
to me...avoid D.C. in the future. If I get out of this alive.  
  
I know exactly where I am. I am in the Chesapeake Bay area. I   
have been chased here by overeager FBI agents who are rather desperate   
to learn why a concerned citizen called their hotline to report that  
Clarice Starling was wandering around the airport this afternoon. I know  
that because I heard an all points bulletin while I was in a gift shop. And  
as I knew that my mother is somewhere in Argentina, they were obviously   
after me. This face is causing me no end of trouble. And the worst part   
is, it was only a layover! I am not so stupid as to live in the capital  
of the country where my parents are wanted by name. I underestimated the  
memory of some people. 18 years after my mother disappeared, 29 years after  
Hannibal Lecter escaped from Memphis, they remember my mother's face.  
  
The American people need a different hobby.  
  
I did not ignore the radio message. Instead, I pulled my trench coat  
lapels up around my face and put my sunglasses on. I walked all the way to  
the parking lot, security in tow. People got out of my way, which was nice.  
  
I stole a parked car and headed north. And two black sedans   
had been behind me since I paid the annoying man at the toll booth while   
leaving the airport. They picked up an unmarked black van, and I knew I was   
in trouble. So I just drove north until I hit the woods. Then I pulled over   
and walked calmly down the trail, taking only my wallet and my gun. And now   
here I am, kneeling on the slightly damp earth, leaves rustling around me,   
in the middle of God's own nowhere.  
  
I know they have followed me here, and that they are done playing nice.  
Well, so am I. The trick is to get out of here without giving myself up to   
the police. Escape is the objective here. Right. All over it. I have my gun,   
but it only holds six bullets, and I know that there are more agents than I  
can take down alone. So I need to escape. I look around, attempting to find  
a useful tool to facilitate my escape. Trees, trees, and more trees...I hate   
the woods. But I hear water. Water is good. Head for the water.   
  
My trench coat flapping lightly, I begin walking. I know what I need  
to do. I need to get home to my parents. Isn't that a childish thing to do?  
Run home to Mommy and Daddy. But, when one is being pursued by the FBI simply  
because of one's appearance, one feels the natural desire to be protected.  
I want my Daddy, for God's sake!  
  
Picking my way through the trees, I head toward the sound of  
rushing water. And I find it...in goddamn spades. A waterfall. Great.  
Since when are there *waterfalls* in New England? Of all the freaking  
luck. Weighing my options, I hear the police closing in. Yelling all the   
while for me to turn myself in. I resent that line. What have *I* done?  
I suppose in the cosmic lottery of life, I was handed an interesting   
set of parents, but that is hardly my fault. Come out with your hands  
up indeed! My parents would never speak to me again.   
  
I glance at the waterfall. It's a good drop. Not impossible, but  
it's going to hurt. I wonder briefly if getting shot would hurt more.  
Looking down, I see that I will have to jump out instead of straight  
down. And I can't see how deep it is, so I will have to jump feet first.  
That is horribly inconvenient. It means that there will be no momentum   
when I hit the water. And it will hurt...probably a lot. I am weighing   
the pain factor when a voice shatters my reverie.  
  
"FBI!! FREEZE!"  
  
I freeze.  
  
"HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!!!"  
  
Oooookay, rent-a-cop. Up go the hands.  
  
"TURN AROUND! SLOWLY!"  
  
Oh for crying out loud. Fine, fine, we'll play this your way. I   
turn slowly.  
  
The cop I am facing is older, perhaps around my mother's age. To  
old for field work like this. Imagine what it might do to his blood pressure.   
It surprises me that he is alone. He must be a perimeter scout. Which means  
they don't think I'd corner myself here. If I'd had any other choice,   
they'd be right. I believe he once worked with my mother, or had seen her   
around. I think this because his face freezes when he sees me. I hope he will drop the gun in shock, because for anyone who knew my mother, I am something  
of a window to the past. Dark hair is pulled back from my face in a simple   
knot, and Clarice Starling's face is mine. But I have my   
father's eyes. Not in color, for my eyes have blended my parent's genes  
to create an odd, hazy purple. But his cold expression, and his   
dispassionate gaze is what the FBI agent sees. Fortunately, my mother was   
also an excellent hand at these sort of withering looks, and he cannot see   
the color of my eyes. It is to dark for him to see any identifying marks.  
So for all he knows I could be Special Agent Starling.  
  
"Good evening officer," I say, inclining my head.  
  
He does not immediately respond. But when he does, it is with a   
startling question, one I did not expect to be asked so quickly.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
I smile. The sunglasses have long since been tucked away, and   
the officer can see my face.  
  
"Clarice Starling, FBI."  
  
I say it in a normal tone of voice, and I see his eyes narrow in  
suspicion. After all, they had been told that they were chasing Clarice Starling, and I certainly looked like Clarice Starling. Now I was giving him the proof he needed. His options were a) shoot me or b) arresst me. I gave him a full five seconds to call it. He waited too long. My hands were down and the gun out of my pocket before he could react.   
  
"Put the gun down, you overgrown ape. I will not hesitate to shoot you where you stand, " I say, articulating clearly so that he would not misunderstand.   
  
"FREEZE!" he yelled. And here I thought I spoke English with great clarity. He fired, and so did I. He missed me; the bullet flew   
wide. I never miss. I fired three shots into his chest. Dead men can't testify.  
Hey, I warned him.   
  
Turning swiftly, I run to the edge of the embankment and throw myself off.   
Above me I hear yelling and several gunshots. But gravity works, as these FBI   
morons are discovering. I know they never thought I'd jump. They have obviously   
forgotten who my parents are. Or rather, they have forgotten who they believe me to be. They have also underestimated me. And that is an incredibly stupid thing to do. They want my parents, not me, and though they aren't aware of that fact, I am. But I will never lead them to Hannibal Lecter. Not in a thousand years. And as I hit the water, I hear my father's voice ringing in my ears.  
  
*That's my girl*  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Short, yes. But a perfect ending point.   
  
Visit my website, review, mail me if you want and PLEASE......  
  
SIGN MY GUESTBOOK!!!!  
  
I'm begging. I'll make you cookies....  
  
Peace, Love and All That Jazz,  
Lyra  



	3. The Swim and The Plane Ride

Dum dee dum. Chapter 2 is here, in all its glory. Or all its freakish  
misery or whatever. Here you are. I'm actually running short on things  
to say for once, so R & R and have a really grand old time!   
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal. If I did, then I would be making a great deal of money off of something like this and I wouldn't be living in mortal fear of being sued. Go figure.  
  
  
Under Attack  
By Lyra Matsuoka  
  
Rated PG-13  
Chapter 3 : The Swim and The Plane Ride  
  
  
The water is a shock. Cold at any time of year, it is near to  
freezing this late into autumn. I was right to believe it would hurt.  
The speed at which I hit the water yanks my arms out to my sides and   
twists my hair around my face. But I survive. I do not kick immediately  
for the surface, as I cannot be sure if any of the Feds have night vision goggles. So I kick downstream a ways, waiting until my lungs begin burning beforel I surface. When I do, I make certain that I am breathing quietly.   
  
Circling back to the car is utterly out of the question, but that is irrelevant. I have absolutely no idea whom that car belongs to, and the Feds should be aware that I stole it. And the airline has no 'Starling' or 'Lecter' passengers. They did have a 'Helen Troy', but I know that eventually the Feds will link that ID to me. Such a pity. It  
was one of my better ID's. I am something of a smart ass.  
  
I swim downstream. Darkness has fallen completely, and I strongly doubt that anyone will be searching for me tonight. Which gives me around six hours to get to a phone, hire a cab, buy a plane ticket and get to Buenos Aires. I am extraordinarily upset by this turn of events. By heading home, I am as good as admitting that my father is now and has always been right: my brother and I are safer at home, close to our parents.  
  
"Hell. The FBI is going *down*," I vow as I churn my arms and swim diagonal to the current.  
  
I swim for nearly a quarter of a mile, watching for a place where the gulley evens out into flat plains, getting colder and colder as I  
go. When I finally reach a safe enough spot to climb out, my limbs are stiff and I must sit for a moment and shiver before I can convince my muscles to work. When they do, it takes another few minutes to climb up the slight embankment and onto the land that runs alongside the highway. Turning, I retrieve the gun and throw it into the darkness, hearing a splash as it hits the surface of the water. I visualize it sinking. I walk up toward the highway. My trench coat is soaking, but my wallet, credit cards, and passport are in a waterproof pouch on the inside. I pat the bulge slightly, reassuring myself that it is there.  
  
I see a car coming, and flag it down. It stops a ways down the road, and I run to it. Chattering, I climb in the backseat of an Oldsmobile, and we drive off. The driver is a middle aged man. He offers me the use of a towel, which I use to squeeze moisture out of my hair. He obviously believes that I should offer him something for the ride. When we arrive at a Wal*Mart I jump out and slam the door, leaving a heartbroken man behind me. Life's a bitch.  
  
"Hey there," a young man with a line of carts greets me. "Rough night?"  
  
"You have no idea," I drawl, touching sarcasm to my tone with ease.  
  
"Go on inside. Up to 50% off on all clothing."  
  
I thank him and go inside. Clothing is a marvelous idea. So is food, and this wonderful place has both.  
  
I buy a cheap, black and white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, a windbreaker, a soda and a bag of chips, smiling as I think of my father's shudder. He despises processed food, which is partly the reason I eat so much of it. I make the necessary phone calls using an old calling card that has some 200 minutes left on it. When I am finished, I wipe the card and borrow scissors from a checker to cut it up. Within moments I am booked to fly coach to Buenos Aires via St. Louis and Lima, and Helen Troy's American Express card shows that she is flying first class to Florence via Miami. My tickets are under three  
different names, waiting in three different cities. It will therfore appear as though one woman stopped in St. Louis, one stopped in Lima and one stopped in Buenos Aires. Not to mention that ID number four is on her way to Italy.   
  
I love messing with the Feds.   
  
I duck into the Wal*Mart bathroom and use the hand dryer on my hair. I change and bundle up my old things. I purchase a brush and a scrunchie from the store and tame my hair into some semblance of order. I thrust my old clothes into a plastic bag and give them to a homeless man while I wait for my cab. My father is always there, whispering instructions into my ear. I must be careful, I must not be caught.  
  
The cab arrives and takes me to the airport, the very airport where this whole fiasco started. I am careful to look unobtrusive and to avoid all security guards. The terminal is nearly deserted at 1:00 am, but there are a few travelers lugging baggage. As I pick up my tickets, I hear a young woman crying. The flight to Florence has been oversold and she does not have enough money to upgrade to first class. I pull her aside and offer her my ticket. She babbles thanks as I walk away, unaware that she is leading the FBI away from me. I wonder if that makes her an accessory to a crime.   
  
"Now boarding all rows for flight 2435, nonstop to Buenos Aires," chimes a cheerful voice. I pick up the pace slightly, jogging through the corridors of the eerily deserted airport. I arrive at the gate just in time to board the red eye. I head back to my seat, hearing children scream and tired, short tempered parents attempting to calm them. I hate coach. Uncomfortable seats and horrible service. But I settle back anyway. The flight is not full, and there is no one sitting next to me. I stand, grab a pillow and a blanket from the overhead compartments and stretch out.  
  
People are settling in all around me, moving to seats where they can lie down or at least stretch out. No one is paying any attention to the safety instruction lecture that the flight attendants are so carefully giving. I honestly couldn't care less about what to do in case of an emergency landing. So I pull a blanket over my head and attempt to ignore all that is being said around me.   
  
"Ma'am, you'll have to sit up and buckle in for take off," a flight attendant urges me. I am not in the mood to be harassed.  
  
"Is the pilot inebriated?"  
  
"No," the woman says, obviously surprised by the question.  
  
"Is he unfit to fly in any way, shape, or form?"  
  
"Of course not!"  
  
"Then I will take my chances."  
  
She wants to argue, I know she does. But she holds back somehow, resisting the urge to attempt putting me in my place. I settle down to sleep, waiting for the roar of the engines.  
  
I am now off of automatic pilot. My father has been silent for several minutes now. He has stopped whispering advice. Now he is simply a shadow in my mind, waiting for me to return home. I begin to calm, hearing Chopin in my head.I remember my father playing for my mother when he thought we were asleep, and listening in the dark, feeling the music sweep over my body.   
  
I am startled out of my thoughts.   
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, we wish to inform you that members of the  
Federal Bureau of Investigation will be accompanying us on this flight..."  
  
FBI agents are boarding the plane. Damn it! What have I done to deserve this? Stifling a groan, I secure the blanket over my head, waiting for the inevitable discovery. I wish desperatly for a weapon.  
  
"They will be seated in first class. Thank you, and enjoy the flight."  
  
I concentrate on slowing my heart down. That was close...too close. I will now have to be doubly careful about when I leave the  
plane.  
  
Sleep is elusive now. I am completely determined not to be caught. My father might come for me, and I cannot risk that. He loves my brother and I to distraction, and that worries me at times. I am beginning to calm down when I hear two flight attendants talking.   
  
"That young one is awfully cute," one giggles.  
  
"He works for the FBI. Maybe tall, dark and handsome is a required."  
  
More giggles and the sound of ice being dropped into a glass. I  
roll my eyes. This is nausiating.  
  
"The one with purple eyes is so charming," one sighs. I tense.  
  
"He's a criminal! How can you think a criminal is cute?"  
  
This is not happening. I refuse to believe it. They can't have found him. Jack is far too intelligent to be caught by the gorilla's in the FBI.  
  
"I said charming, not cute!"  
  
"He is that. The dark hair, and the looks he gives...he obviously despises  
the Feds he's with."  
  
"The six fingers are a little creepy though..."  
  
They fade away.   
  
Fuck.   
  
The Feds have my brother.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
So, yeah. What *will* our heroine do? I wonder. So, don't forget to post me a review. I like those. A whole lot.   
  
Peace, Love and All That Jazz,  
Lyra  
  



	4. Plan of Action

And....we're back! I know you are all unbearably excited. It is so wonderful to be here. This fic is moving along so smoothly right now, I can't help but wonder when it's going to freeze up on me. NO! I will *not* think like that. It is self destructive. And I don't want to think like that anyway. Horribly depressing.   
  
I wanted to say as well that I wrote this chapter before the events of September 11th, and I do not mean to mock the tragedy. My thoughts are with the victims and have been since that day.   
  
So, her we have Chapter 4 of 'Under Attack'. Enjoy!   
  
Under Attack   
by Lyra Matsuoka   
  
Chapter 4 : Plan of Action   
Rated PG-13   
  
This is not a good thing. It is time to review the facts:   
  
1) They were chasing me because they thought that I was Clarice   
Starling.   
  
2) Because no one got a clear look at me, they will assume that   
I was indeed Clarice Starling, and that I got away.   
  
3) They have my brother, which gives them an advantage. And unless   
they are complete idiots (a possibility which has not been ruled out)   
they will have realized this.   
  
4) They are not aware that I am on this plane. So the element of   
surprise is mine. Goodie.   
  
All right. Feds: 1 Fugitives: 1. I am very confidant in my   
ability to tip the scales in my favor. But first I need a plan. And   
a plan involves thinking, a process that I am not much able to do just   
now. Therefore, I must sleep. Until we touch down, there is nothing I   
can do. So I sleep, realizing that I will need my wits about me to   
rescue my brother.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
I am awakened not fifteen minutes later by a flight attendant   
offering beverages and little packets of assorted pretzels and bagel   
chips. They pass me by, on the assumtion that I am sleeping. I need a   
plan of action, and my brain is functioning better with even a minimal   
amount of sleep. So I lay across the horribly uncomfortable coach chair   
staring at a blank wall in front of me. This flight is going to take a while, though I do not know exactly how long. Then I hear the flight attendants talking.   
  
"The criminal needs to go the bathroom," one says.   
  
He is *not* a criminal. Stop referring to him as one.   
  
"You really shouldn't call him that. We don't know if he's done anything wrong."   
  
I like that one. If it gets to the point where I have to take a   
hostage, I will make certain it is not her.   
  
"He's handcuffed to the seat. What would you call him?"   
  
They handcuffed my brother to the plane seat? This means war!   
  
"Are they taking the handcuffs off?"   
  
"Yeah. They don't want to alarm the other passengers."   
  
"Isn't that dangerous?"   
  
"I doubt it. He doesn't seem like the type to attempt to   
hijack the plane."   
  
Hijack the plane? Now there is an idea...   
  
"So he has to walk through coach. Should we warn the passengers?"   
  
Nope. No ammunition and far too many people to be easily fooled.   
  
"No way! I don't want to deal with a mass panic attack. He'll be   
escorted by an agent."   
  
They fade away, and I realize that my oportunity is at hand. First, I need to alert Jack to my presence. And that is going to be remarkably easy. My brother and I both have a passion for Vide Cor Meum, and were prone to singing it as children. The older we got, the more it improved. So simply hearing someone humming it should make the hair on his neck stand on end. It will alert him to the possibility of my presence, and that will be enough for now.   
  
So I lay down once more and cover my head with a blanket. Not a word is said in coach, as most sensible people are attempting to grab a few hours of sleep before landing in St. Louis. I am nearly certain that they are taking my brother to St. Louis, though for what reason I cannot tell. It is therefore imperative that I make my move in St. Louis, and that I do it quickly. I need to get my brother to safety, and have a care for myself as well. Easier said than done.   
  
Here they come. I hear the flight attendants giggling in the background, and I know that it must be the young, good looking FBI agent. I am focused on the shoes. A pair of dress blacks and loafers.   
I catch the scent of lavender with a touch of fleece. Ambergris base. No doubt about it, that is my brother, smart ass that he is. He is playing with fire. But it is better than a visual glimpse of him. I hum Vide Cor Meum softly. The loafers pause for a moment, and I can almost see Jack tilting his head slightly to one side, looking so much like our father that it would make me laugh. The loafers pick up speed again, but as they pass by my seat, I feel the lightest brush of fingers on my shoulder. So, he knows it is me. Fabulous. Then he will be ready for anything I throw at him.   
  
"Don't touch the passengers," I hear the Fed whisper at my brother. No one gets to boss my brother around but my parents and me. Back off, federal servant. You are *so* far out of your league here. Not that he knows that. The loafers and black dress shoes pass by me, and I settle back to formulate my plan.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
By the time the flight attendants have announced landing, I have a rough idea of what I am going to do. Of course, it all dependant on the bathrooms having air ducts that I can fit through and acquiring a few blocks of C-4. Since that doesn't look like an option, I have decided that I am going to grab my brother and run like hell. All rightie then. BREAK!   
  
The plane taxies into the gate, and comes to a complete stop, with all the passengers remaining in their seats like good little monkeys until it does. All passengers begin unloading their belongings. I rise as well, streching my muscles in preperation for the busy morning ahead. It is still dark outside, which will work to my advantage. I hear the flight attendants chattering again, and I listen carefully.   
  
"I got the younger one's number!" one brags.   
  
"The older one can't be more than thirty five. Two agents for one guy. Must be a fairly high priority."   
  
Two?! That's it? Good Lord, this will easier than I thought.   
  
"They're getting off last," one reports.   
  
Oh no they aren't. I *can* do this. Here we go...   
  
"They want us to get off too, in case the guy tries anything."   
  
Someone's gonna try something, that I can damn well gurantee.   
  
I walk forward, ducking into the kitchen where all beverages are kept. The other passengers have emptied the cabin, and I creep down through the plane, and approach the first class cabin. They are treating my brother like a first class criminal. The flight attendants and captain have left temporarily, and it is time for the Feds and my brother to leave as well. The flight attendants were acurate in their reporting. Two agents, one around thirty five, and one twenty five. He must be a trainee. No way would they send two agents to guard my brother. He hasn't done anything, and they have no proof that he's dangerous.   
  
This might be fun, actually.   
  
I walk forward.   
  
"Civilian on deck," the younger one says, standing up.   
  
"I'm really sorry! I had to use the bathroom. Is that they guy the flight chicks were talking about? Is he dangerous?" I can play the part of ditz to the hilt when I want to. And these guys are falling for it hook, line and sinker. But I am unprepared for the younger agent. He is just as gorgeous as the flight attendants were claiming. He has medium brown hair with natural highlights, and green eyes that appear to have gold flecks in them. Well built, muscular, and tall. I'd place him at around 6'2. Damn, the boy is good looking. But, I have no time for attraction. I do believe, however, that he feels the same way about me. That is always a nice feeling.   
  
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step off the plane," the younger agent says. Damn, there goes the macho attitude. He just *had* to ruin the picture. He's packing all big and bad, and it is starting to annoy me. No matter. I notice that they uncuffed one of my brother's hands before I got there. He is now picking the other with a spare we both carry in the heels of our shoes. Hey, it pays to be prepared. And neither of the agents have noticed that my brother is nearly free. They also have not noticed our striking resemblance to one another. But the younger one is now studying my face with great intensity, as though he were committing it to memory. He very well may be. Damn.   
  
No time to worry about that now. I am the distraction and I am going to do my job well. Aaaaaaaaaaaand she's off.   
  
Simplicity in all things.   
  
Right. Thanks Daddy.   
  
"But is he? Is he dangerous? What did he do? I'll bet he's a Pisces. What's your sign?" I shoot off rapid questions at the agents. The fact that they have not recognized it as a diversionary tactic only proves how sleepy or stupid they are. I am personally opting for stupid. My brother is loose, standing up, his hand is reaching for the older one's gun, and these two Feds have yet to notice that anything out of the ordinary is happening. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder my father didn't want to toy with any agent except my mother. She was smart. These apes are not. Oh, well. At least the younger one has his looks going for him.   
  
Come on, Jack, do the family proud. The gun is in my brother's hand. YES!!! This is going to be so easy.   
  
"Now, this situation reduces my faith in the American FBI rather drastically," my brother drawls, cocking the gun at the older of the two. "Officer Clairmont, would mind putting your gun down?"   
  
The gun is pressed to the back of the older agent's head. The only agent, I remind myself. Clairmont is just a trainee. That's why my brother addressed him as 'officer'. Oh, hurrah. A little trainee to jerk around. A good looking trainee. Now that will be *quite* enough of that, I tell myself.   
  
I try to look petrified. I must have pulled it off, because Clairmont gives me a small smile as he lifts his hands into the air. He turns slowly.   
  
"There's a gun in the waistband of my pants. Get it, cock the hammer and point it at him," Clairmont whispers. What?! Oh, you crazy   
bastard. First, you should never carry a gun in the waistband of your pants. It might discharge and shoot you. Second, you are asking a civilian, a total innocent, to retrieve that weapon and point it at a currently loose criminal.   
  
I believe I will write to Congress about this idiotic display. Oh, well. I will educate Officer Clairmont as to the stupidity of his assumption. Moron. He has *only* his looks going for him.   
  
But I do as he tells me. I get the gun, cock it, and point it at my brother. I will not pass up this opportunity to get hold of a weapon.   
  
"You are an idiot. I believe I shall disown you," I yell in Italian. For all the Feds know, I could be yelling, FBI! FREEZE! With any luck at all, that is what they will believe.   
  
Jack looks at me with strange eyes, and both of us acknowledge that there is no need to put both of us in danger. He is the one who will be guilty of escape, so he is the one who will kill the agents, if killing becomes neccesary.   
  
"Don't move a muscle, Martins. Notice that I am using your name. After your years in Behavioral Science, you should know that this indicates that I think of you as a person. I am not attempting to dehumanize you, nor do I have any desire to kill you. But if you move, so help me, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your head. Comprende?"   
  
Martins does not give any indication that he has heard. Jack smiles slightly and grabs me. In a move we have practiced numerous times over the years, he grabs my gun and drops me into a chair. In a smooth motion, Jack smashes the but of my gun against Clairmont's temple, knocking him unconcious. Clairmont's head connects with an armrest as he goes down, and blood flows from his nose, but I believe he will live. And Martins does a very stupid thing. He swung around, attempting to disarm my brother. My brother pulled the trigger.   
  
My brother and I believe in fair play. A warning is all anyone gets. A warning, and a bullet in the chest. We don't have our father's finesse. Nor do we have the time to be sophisticated about this.   
  
So, the final count is one dead FBI agent, and unconcious trainee, and two triumphant Lecters.   
  
One of these days the Feds will learn not to mess around with our family. We seem to get violent when they do. My brother and I look at each other.   
  
"You heading home?" Jack queries.   
  
"We are heading home. I hope there is an extra seat on the flight to Lima," I quip. My brother nods and we turn together.   
  
"Wait," I say. I turn back to the bodies, divest them of their permits to carry weapons and FBI badges. These we will get rid of as soon as possible, but it always pays to be prepared. But there is something wrong.   
  
"These aren't real," I murmur, running my fingers lightly over the shields. I have seen pictures of the official FBI identification, and these are not them. Everything is perfect, but the metal is off. I cannot explain how I know this but these are not FBI agents. My brother and I exchange a long look.   
  
"They grabbed me off the street in Boston, proving once and for all that no one gives a damn about other people anymore. The badges look real, though, and so do their other forms of identification. There is some serious money behind this operation." By the time Jack has finished his monolauge, he has divested Martins of his handkerchief and is wiping down the guns.   
  
If these are not FBI agents, then there is a very real possibility that the men who chased me were not Feds either. But if that is true...   
  
Who would go to this amount of trouble to get to our family?   
  
"Come, friend, let us away," I say, smiling slightly. My brother rips the handkerchief in half and wraps one half around each gun. We grip them carefully, conceling them as we head for the door.   
  
As my brother and I leave the plane, I wonder how much attention we have inadvertantly called onto our family. Even if the men we have maimed, injured, clubbed or killed are not Federal agents, they are still human. Oh well. Chalk it up to another fugitive and a Clarice Starling look-alike wandering around. There have been dozens of sightings in recent years, and I doubt one more will be enough to warrant opening the case once more. But I worry nonetheless.   
  
The shots appear to have gone unnoticed. Whoever is after my family arranged to have my brother transported on a red eye flight hoping to avoid potential panic from other passengers and detection by the real Feds. But they did not anticipate an escape. And because they did not consider an escape, they also did not consider the idea that asking all passengers and personnel to clear the plane before releasing my brother would result in a complete lack of witnesses. Except me. And if that young trainee survives the blow my brother gave him, he will come looking for me. If only to prove that what he says happened on the flight to St. Louis did indeed happen. It is imparative that we not be found anywhere near this airport.   
  
My brother and I proceed off the plane and into the terminal. It is completly deserted. No one is waiting, no one is passing by. I am convinced of the existance of angels now. Someone is watching over my brother and I. If I didn't know better, I would consider this whole thing a set up.   
  
My brother and I walk into the closest bathrooms and proceed to wipe the guns down again. no use taking chances. My brothers prints are on them both, and mine are on one. Therefore, I am vigilant in wiping them both down. That done, I stuff my gun into the air vent in the women's restroom. The air ducts in airports are fairly easy to unscrew, remove, and snap back into place when you know how. I know how, and I have a metal Leatherman in a platic case conceled. It is a better plan than some. When my brother and I meet again, neither of us inquires as to the whereabouts of the other's gun. I am sure he did something clever with his.   
  
We proceed quickly to the flight desk, and I claim my ticket. There are other seats available, and we purchase a ticket for my brother. By the time we are seated, we can see security running around outside the other plane. As the plane moves to the runway, several black cars pull onto the tarmack near the St. Louis plane. Whoever is behind all this moves fast, I'll give them that.   
  
A 747 to Peru rushes down the runway and jumps into the night, sailing over FBI agents and St. Louis police, and my brother relaxes. I, however, do not. I inherited intuition from both my parents, and I know this is not over. But for the time being, we are safe, my brother and I. So I droop against my seat, and allow sleep to take my tired body.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Three hours and a brief plane ride later, Andre Clairmont was seated in a limosine, zooming through the night. He held a bag full of ice against his temple as he cursed the loss of the largest amount of money he was likely to see in his lifetime. The shrill of the car phone interrupted his reverie. Clairmont answered.   
  
"Hello? This is he. No. Yes, he is. I regret it too, sir. No, he escaped. Yes sir. No, we don't know where he has gone."   
  
There was a long pause.   
  
"I understand, sir. Thank you, Mr. Verger."   
  
Clairmont dropped the phone after hitting the END button. Marcus Verger, his employer, was not pleased. And that was never good. The limosine sliced through the night quietly, as Clairmont stared off into the distance. There were thousands of stars in the sky. A few blinked as they moved; planes. Clairmont wondered if the prisoner was on one of those planes, or if he had taken to the streets of St. Louis. It didn't matter. He was gone. And it would be Clairmont's job to find him again.   
  
The limosine purred down the highway toward Muskrat Farm, the ancestral Verger home. Clairmont shuddered. He had seen pictures of Mason Veger's murder, and it was no wonder his son wanted revenge.   
  
An eye for an eye. A father for a father.   
  
Hannibal Lecter would die. And his children would watch.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
There you have it! Chapter 4, soon to be followed by Chapter 5. Many thanks to those who reviewed. I love you all! Ja!


	5. Dance With The Devil

Under Attack  
by Lyra Matsuoka  
Rated PG-13  
  
Chapter 5 : Dance With The Devil  
  
The hours spent on the plane were miserable. Not that I really expected   
them to be spent in a wise and productive manner. I watched the in-flight   
movie, which was a romantic comedy of sorts and might have been   
interesting if it hadn't been so horribly implausible.   
  
Jack slept the entire trip, and I managed to sleep from the end of the   
movie to the landing in Peru. After customs check and ticket punching,  
Jack and I were on our way home. My heart gave a little jump. It   
had been too long since I had been home. I closed my eyes and   
tried to relax, but I felt Jack sitting tensely beside me and I  
knew it was an exercise in futility to attempt a calm demeanor.   
  
The landing was smooth and calm, the flight attendants cheerful and  
pleasant as the ushered us off the plane. No luggage equaled no need  
to fight the crowd for our bags. Overall, I loved Buenos Aires,  
and found the pulse of the city intoxicating. It hit me as I walked  
off the plane, and seeped into my veins. The airport wasn't very   
interesting, and the mob exiting the airport was even less interesting,  
but as my brother and I walked into the street the city welcomed us home.  
  
"Taxi!" Jack called, and we stepped into the first available cab. I gave  
directions to a place that was within five miles of our house, and we were  
off. The cab driver chattered away in Spanish, and I rolled the window down  
to inhale the spices that lingered in the air.  
  
Eventually the cab drew to a stop. We paid the cab-driver and tipped him  
nicely. That way, he wouldn't remember us all that well. Just like   
everyone else. A band played somewhere and people were moving to a tango   
beat. Cafes were full to brimming and the cobblestone streets were filled   
with people of all types.   
  
My black and white shirt flapped and I grimaced. Jack grinned and tugged at his own clothing. We started walking, weaving through people as we moved   
into the night. We hailed another cab and rode within a mile of the house.  
  
The walk was pleasant. Jack wrapped an arm around my shoulders and I slipped one around his waist. Two Lecters, walking down the street and holding each other upright. Who would have imagined.  
  
"This ought to be a surprise," Jack commented.   
  
"Maybe we should buy a disposable camera and snap a picture of their faces," I suggested, and we both smiled. It wasn't often that we had the chance  
to surprise our parents. More often than not, they had the jump on us.   
  
"Father's going to be upset."  
  
I nodded in agreement. Jack and I have always been rather formal when dealing with our parents, but I wasn't thinking in adult terms just then. I wanted my Daddy. And finally, he was within reach.   
  
The house loomed before us, elegant and dangerous at the same time. I never thought about it's beauty anymore, as artistic expression of all kinds was  
now appreciated automatically. The windows on the third floor gleamed with   
light, but I knew my parents weren't at home. And I knew because it was 9 p.m.;  
the ideal time to attend a dinner or the theatre.   
  
The doors were open, and there were no servants that we could see. Dinner had obviously been planned in advance. I could smell it. But the servants had laid the meal out and were now moving quietly about their business.   
  
There was no outpouring of joy at our return from these people. They barely knew us. They were surprised that we were home, that much I was certain of. But I was too tired to care. Jack headed for the kitchen, but I trudged up   
two flights of elegantly sculpted stairs and opened the door to my room.   
  
"Sinner on the mainland, he's a sinner on the sea...he looks for absolution, not accountability..." I sang as I moved into the rooms that had not changed a bit. Here were my paintings and sculptures from Florence, my blown glass from Venice, my books from everywhere. All arranged by my father's expert hand. Oriental rugs, vases, paintings again. All this arranged perfectly. CD's, DVD's and a television were touches of my generation, but the antique wooden end tables, carefully crafted glass lamps and touches of the old world ruined the slightly modern look. I didn't mind.   
  
"By the harbor lights of Sydney, or the Bora Bora Moon, he recites his sad   
confessions to the seagulls and the loons..." I moved into my bedroom.  
Wrought iron bed frame and carefully sculpted candelabras and long   
poles for more candles. Whit candles everywhere. Burgandy silk spread, and a burgundy covered window seat, with black and silver accents. Gauzy silver curtains that blew in the breeze; all waiting for me. Here were more bookshelves, my antique mahogany desk, this with a covered computer. Stationary in the drawers. Lovely.   
  
The bathroom with more candles. I took a long shower, and dressed carefully in a red silk dress that I had picked up in Hong Kong. The high collar was fitted, and the dress followed the lines of my body. Have you noticed that I have a thing for silk? Well, it looks good on me. Okay, it feels good. Same difference.  
  
"Remittance Man, black sheep of the family clan, broke too many rules along the way..."  
  
I opened the windows, still humming the haunting melody. The sleeves of the dress were short, and I seated myself at my vanity, brushing and styling my hair into a tight and elegant bun. The golden designs on the red silk winked in the candle glow. I didn't bother putting the candles out.   
  
"Mischa?" Jack stood outside my door, knocking lightly. He had let himself into my outer room. I didn't mind.   
  
"Yes?" I said, carefully formal. Jack was wearing slacks and a button down shirt. No tie. He looked relaxed, but business like.  
  
"Those weren't FBI agents."  
  
"No. They weren't," I confirmed, laying down the brush and reaching for my blush. "They were professional though. There was money behind them. Those badges looked real; amazingly real. It takes money and connections for that kind of counterfeit."  
  
"But who hates us that much? Who would go to that much trouble to abduct us?"  
  
"You, Jack. You. I wasn't caught."  
  
"Don't pull a superior attitude with me. You are, however, correct. How did you escape?"  
  
"Shot one of them and jumped off a cliff."  
  
"Drama queen."  
  
Jack smiled at me in the mirror, and with my lipstick applied, I smiled back. Mascara, blush, and lipstick can turn a hell-warmed-over appearance into beauty queen.   
  
"When are they coming home?"  
  
"Servants said 11."  
  
I glanced at my bedside clock. 10:30. I had been in the shower for longer than planned. It didn't matter.   
  
"Is dinner prepared?"  
  
"Of course. I told the servants to lay two more settings, but they've sent us a tray for now. It's in the other room."   
  
I nodded and turned on the vanity seat. Jack offered a hand, and tugged me to my feet. We walked into the other room, and Jack poured the tea while I found my scrapbook. Actually, it had been my mothers for years. She had collected articles concerning Hannibal Lecter for years before they ran off. And when she lost interest in keeping track of 'Hannibal the Cannibal' sightings, I took over. I sipped my tea and devoured biscuits, jam, and a small meat and cheese platter while flipping through the book. Jack Crawford's obituary, the announcements of Mason Verger's death. I nearly missed the clipping, but in a corner stood a short birth announcement. Margot Verger, Mason's sister, and her partner, had been blessed with a baby boy, 8 pounds, 4 ounces. He had been christened Marcus Verger.   
  
Hmmm. I turned the book and showed it to Jack. Jack read it, raising his eyebrows.  
  
"So?"  
  
"So. If the FBI wasn't after us, then someone with a grudge had to have been. And that grudge holder must have a great deal of money, to hire all that muscle and dress them up like Feds. Who has money like that?"  
  
"Mason Verger has been dead for 18 years."  
  
"More like twenty. It was just a thought."  
  
"You think his sister sent those goons after us?"  
  
"No. But I think his son might have."  
  
"Really," Jack leaned back in his chair and looked at me in a mocking way. I threw a biscuit at him, which he caught and ate.  
  
"When you have a better explanation, come talk to me."  
  
"I'll do that. Until then, however, I eat."  
  
"Where do you put all that?" I asked, watching him eat.  
  
"The hollow leg I have been hiding from you all these years."  
  
"You are *so* amusing," I drawled.  
  
"Yes, I know," Jack returned smiling at me in that lady killer way he has perfected. My brother is a ladies man, no doubt about it.   
  
I smiled back, relaxing in the safety of my home. I was with my brother, I was surrounded by thousands of dollars in security equipment, and I was safe. It was a warm, comfortable feeling. I heard the servants leaving quickly and quietly, and knew they were setting the alarms for the grounds, gates and house as they went. The clock struck eleven as footsteps hurried to and fro in the hallway, no doubt putting the finishing touches on the table. As the front door closed for the final time, Jack and I rose. Down the stairs we went, taking the dishes into the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine chilling; I opened it while Jack got the glasses. Chardonnay, and it was oak-y. It tasted sharp and wonderful.   
  
Jack and I lit the candles around the living room and started the fire, and then we waited. At 11:30, a car pulled into the drive. Doors opened and shut, four sharp beeps set the alarms again. Heels clicking on the stone entrance, the door opened, and female laughter drifted towards us. Jack and I both rose.   
  
Jack cleared his throat. The laughter stopped abruptly, and I heard the safety being clicked off a gun. No one spoke.   
  
Moments later I glanced away from the fire and saw Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, two of the most sought after people on the FBI's list, standing in the doorway.  
  
"Hello Mother. Hello Father." 


	6. Fantasy Unfolding

lyrasoze@hotmail.com  
  
Hello all! This chapter has been a long time in coming, I know. This chapter has a slightly more formal tone to it, and it is fairly short. I wanted to get the story moving again, and I couldn't think of a way to do it without this filler. The tone of this chapter is also more ceremonial, if you will, than the others, because it felt like a more formal setting.   
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything interesting. You can search my room if you don't believe me.   
  
Under Attack  
By Lyra Matsuoka  
Rated PG-13  
  
Chapter 6 : Fantasy Unfolding  
  
  
For as long as I can remember, there has been nothing more frightening than the sound of a gun safety being clicked off. To me, that deadly little snap of sound meant that whoever was holding that gun, whoever gripped that weapon, had officially declared their willingness to use said instrument of death. And my mother had never been afraid of her gun. It was an extension of her arm, and she rarely missed her mark.   
  
But as deadly as she was with that .45, any sane person would have been far more concerned with the man whom I knew was standing at her side. The fact that I couldn't see him was irrelevant. I felt his presence.   
  
Jack and I stood motionless, waiting for the perfect moment to make our presence known. There was no need to speak. I was honestly more worried that my mother would shoot us for scaring her than I was about her shooting us on sight. My mother never, ever shoots on sight. Something to do with her wanting to know whom exactly she is killing, or some moral principle of that sort. It's a fascinating thing, the human mind.   
  
My mother moved into the living room first, gun held firmly in her hand. I watched her carefully. It was amazing to me how she managed to hold that gun so carelessly and yet still give the impression that she was ready to kill anything that looked at her the wrong way. She had always been like that, all shadows and quicksilver. My eyes flitted across her features, and then slid to the darkness behind her.  
  
Candlelight made monsters out of music boxes and a fairyland of the fine furniture in the room. In this surreal landscape, my father was perfectly at home. The shadows stirred briefly, parting to allow Hannibal Lecter entrance to the pool of light that danced at his feet. It might have terrified another man, to be surrounded by so much elegance and carefully cultured taste. Fabrics that blended perfectly with wallpaper and flower arrangements created a divine frame for the people who resided there. And my father, standing very still, cocked his head to one side.   
  
"Mischa. Jack."   
  
My mother sounded shocked. I heard Jack start towards her and knew that he was reaching slowly for the gun. She would never let him take it, but it never hurt to try; and she would most likely allow him to push the barrel down until it was pointed at the floor. I was too wrapped up in watching my father to observe the familiar interchange.   
  
"Mischa," my father said smoothly, opening his arms. I walked into them and wrapped my arms around him, leaning into his infinite strength. We were silent, my father and I, though I heard Jack and my mother conversing quickly and quietly in the background. My father squeezed me around the middle and I turned my head into the curve of his neck. And suddenly I wasn't tired anymore. I wasn't hurt, or upset, or even tearful.  
  
I was pissed off.   
  
"I jumped off a cliff," I said slowly, my words a bit muffled. Well, my head was buried in my father's shoulder, and I chose to sacrifice articulation for the moment.   
  
"What?" My mother sounded shocked. My father just smiled slightly.   
  
"That's my girl," he whispered into my hair. Now is that freaky or what? I knew he was going to say that. That is one of the best things about my family. They are pretty damn accepting of everything I do.   
  
"I jumped off a cliff. It was a rush. A rush that ended in a large amount of cold water and a long swim, but for those forty seconds, I was on top of the world."  
  
My father took my hand and led me to the couch. My mother, having a slightly more informal view of parenting, slung her arm around my brother's waist and led him to the loveseat across from the couch. Jack and I grinned at each other. It was good to be home.   
  
Dinner was informal, or as informal as it is possible for a Lecter family gathering to be. My parents were careful not to ask too many questions, but they were concerned about security. My father leaned back in his elegant chair and allowed my mother to fire questions at the two of us. Where had we stashed the guns? What had these men looked like? Were they FBI agents? I saw a flicker of emotion in her eyes and wondered if Clarice Starling was remembering faces of men she had known so many years ago. I shook my head slowly from side to side, and my mother returned slowly. I knew that she harbored a different life in her memories, and that they seeped through every now and then. I had learned the value of patience.   
  
My mother's hair was dark, as dark as mine, but longer. The few strands of gray streaking through her tresses lent them a glimmer that my own did not possess. My hair absorbed the light; my mother's reflected it. But to look into her face was to see a mirror of my own, with few differences. I bore no mark of courage on my cheekbone; I was not certain that I deserved to wear such a thing.  
  
My parents were not concerned about the "agents" who had followed me into the woods. I looked so much like my mother that, so many years later, anyone seeing my in the gloom would assume that I was her. For some reason, my mother has been frozen in the minds of the public, and I was likely to be mistaken for her before the account was filed away and forgotten.   
  
But Jack was a different story. He looked like me, of course, but many people had seen him, many more than had seen me. Most of these would put the encounter from their minds, looking back on it once in a great while with curiosity. But those who had pursued us knew that jack was alive. And more likely than not, they knew that I was as well.   
  
We had been careful, my brother and I, and my parents resolved to keep to themselves for the next few days until the accounts of the 'hijacking' had passed from the media.  
  
Jack and I kept our theory to ourselves. Perhaps the morning would be a better time to share, but now was a time for reflection. I drew strength from my family. My mother laughed softly as Jack delivered a witty punch line and I smiled at her amusement. My father watched Jack intently, though my brother seemed oblivious. Finally, his gaze shifted to me, and we sat observing each other for a few moments.   
  
"You cut your hair," he began.  
  
"You had your nose done," I tossed back.  
  
"My previous nose did not match my new tuxedo," he drawled, leaning back in his chair.   
  
"My hair took too long to brush every day."  
  
"You look like your mother did when she was very young."  
  
I took a breath. This is an uncommon occurrence. My father very rarely compares me to my mother. He selects fabrics for their contrasts and textures, and he knows which colors suit me and which do not, but he rarely speaks on the subject of the striking resemblance between my mother and me. I've always thought that the similarity worried him. But I will not refuse the compliment now that it has been offered, for a compliment it surely is. "Thank you."  
  
He inclined his head, and extended his hand. I placed my own in his and we both stood, leaving Jack and my mother to their conversation. My father and I walked through the house, talking softly as we went. There was a formality in his demeanor that faded once we were among family, and we spoke of my travels and of his theories and experiments. It was a comfortable way to spend the evening, and I realized that I had missed these quiet discussions and late night music sessions.   
  
My father and I spoke of many things, but as we approached the music room our thoughts and words turned to my spectacular swan dive off a cliff.  
  
"We are under attack," my father murmured, seating himself at our baby grand piano.   
  
"So it would seem," I added, watching his face carefully. My father gazed out into space, and I fell silent. He was thinking, scrolling through possibilities in his mind, and he would not speak while he was considering these things. He was capable of ignoring a person standing in the same room with him for hours on end, and so I saved my thoughts.   
  
I saw sheet music placed on the harpsichord and on the baby grand. I reached for it. "Caro Mio Ben, Se Tu Mami, Tu Lo Sai," I murmured, rifling through the paper. The music spoke to me and the Italian lyrics hovered on the edge of my tongue.   
  
When I looked up again, my father was watching me, his maroon eyes intent on my face. "You have a theory."  
  
"I do."  
  
"You believe that Mason Verger's family has something to do with this."  
  
"His son, yes."  
  
My father fell silent once more, but he was still looking at me. I watched his expression, and knew that my dreamy violet eyes were now focused and assured. He and I both knew what had to be done...and I was the only one who could accomplish such a feat.   
  
"I'm going back." 


	7. Break With Reality

I have returned with the next chapter of Under Attack. Enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: My list of worldly possessions (copyright 2003) still does not include 'Hannibal' or any of the wonderful characters dreamed up by Thomas Harris.   
  
Under Attack  
By Lyra Matsuoka  
Rated PG-13   
  
Chapter 7 : Break With Reality  
  
The plans for my return to the states were made quickly and without much fuss. It was decided that I could not waltz back into the States without changing my hair color, though I protested vociferously that I would polka before I would waltz. My hair went from dark brown to auburn, Clairol #46 or something along those lines, and that change made my eyes glow with an amethyst light. My style was tourist, my new passport said 'Vivian Victors.' So plain, so unassuming; I made a face when I saw it.   
  
"Was it absolutely necessary to create an identity that has the roman numerals 666 in it?" My brother grinned tightly. He was not pleased that I was leaving without him.   
  
That is the secret of moving through the shadows of the world. Remaining on the outskirts is the key. Being slightly funny, polite and business like ensures that people like you and forget you as soon as you have passed from their sphere of existence. It is an art I have perfected.   
  
My father knew of my plan, and hadn't spoken out against it. I was not so foolish to take his silence for approval, but the fact that he had stood by as I made my plans was encouraging. I knew that I could not, would not, fight my father, and that gave him a large advantage.  
  
My brother was against it, as evidenced by his brooding silence and slightly satiric humor. My mother watched with patience, and I knew that any opinions she had would be held back. It is still in question what she remembers about her stay at Muskrat Farm - she has never volunteered and I was unwilling to ask.  
  
At this stage in the proceedings, talking to my father or to me would resemble talking to a brick wall. It was useless, and my mother knew it. My brother is not quite as quick on the uptake.   
  
I had spent some time pondering maps of Muskrat Farm, looking over blueprints and photographs that my father had obtained somewhere. Sometimes he amazes me. It is always helpful in obtaining information to have a rather elastic moral code. Just something to keep in mind.   
  
I was rinsing my hair for the second time when my father appeared in the doorway. He extended a piece of paper, and I took it with a questioning glance.   
  
"Read it."  
  
I read quickly. It was a memo sent from Marcus Verger to a man named Andre Clairmont expressing a desire to meat Hannibal Lecter and his off-spring. Included was a shot of Jack, obviously taken with a telephoto lens while he was standing in Trafalgar Square, and a desperately grainy photograph of someone who might have been me. It was taken in New York. I new instantly it wasn't my picture...I'd never had hair that short and spiky. I shuddered when I saw it.   
  
"That's why they went after Jack. They knew who he was. I was a shot in the dark."  
  
"They would have taken you or your mother. I highly doubt they were being particular at that stage in the proceedings."  
  
I smirked. "This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel."  
  
"Not quite so easy. You have your gun?"  
  
"I have one on hold in D.C. There's a cell phone, and a good hunk of cash waiting in a D.C. safe deposit box. I'll call Mr. Verger and make an appointment."  
  
"If he says no?"  
  
"It won't be a request."  
  
My father smiled and turned toward the window. I walked over and stood beside him.   
  
"Marcus Verger believes that I killed his uncle."  
  
I stepped back and listened. Questions would come later, but when Hannibal Lecter spoke, everyone with an iota of common sense listened.   
  
"Or rather, that I killed his father."  
  
I raised an eyebrow in invitation to continue. There is nothing my father loves so much as an audience.   
  
"Did you?"  
  
"Oh no. No no no, that would have been much too easy. And besides, I left him alive the first time for a reason. No, his sister killed him, at my suggestion. And I will never *deny* that I killed Mason Verger, and so everyone is safe. One more murder added to my long list of crimes, and Margot and her lover Julie were able to live happily ever after with the child that Mason unwillingly gave them. But it seems that the full proof plan was not proofed against inside enemies."  
  
"Someone needs to straighten Marcus out."  
  
"I'm certain that you are up to the job, my dear."   
  
I caught a new note in my father's voice. His even, calm intonation had been slightly disturbed by an undercurrent of emotion that I was unfamiliar with. I recognized, with a shock, that my father was worried.   
  
"I'll be careful," I said, attempting to smooth away whatever worry might be blooming on the surface of this situation.   
  
"I go against my better judgment to send you into the proverbial lion's den all on your own."  
  
I heard in that statement a promise. My father was going to follow me, and there was nothing I could say or do to prevent it from happening. I paused for a moment, then reached for my father's hand. He was a wonderful artist, my father. In more ways than one. It was sad to me that so few people would ever know the mannered, educated, well-dressed and well-spoken man that my father was. Many called him insane; more called him evil, believing that insane was too human a term for what Hannibal Lecter, M.D. really was. But in that moment, and in so many others throughout the course of my life, all I saw was my father standing straight and tall, ready for anything.   
  
"I'll call if I need help."   
  
My father nodded and I walked away reluctantly, unwilling to let the moment go. We both knew I wouldn't call, no matter what happened to me, and we both knew that I wouldn't have to. My father would be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for an excuse to attack.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Can I say again that I..."  
  
"No."   
  
My brother closed his mouth under the force of the glares that my mother and I sent his way.   
  
"This is a bad idea."  
  
"Thank you, Jack. Thank you so very much for that captivating insight. You've said it five times now. I'm certainly glad you said it again, or I might have missed the point."  
  
This time around my brother glared and I smirked.   
  
"I'd feel better about you going if I could go with you."  
  
"You would, I wouldn't. They know you, Jack. They know who you are, what you look like and they have a good idea of how you move in a tense situation. You would be in the way, and I have neither the time nor he inclination to protect you and watch my own back."  
  
"I protect you, you protect me. It's a perfect system."  
  
"I protect me, Mom protects you. How's that sound?"  
  
"I hate you."  
  
"What a lovely thing to say. I'm blushing. I am."  
  
With a saucy grin I kissed my brother on the cheek and hugged my mother for good luck. And I walked out the door and swung into the chauffeured jaguar. This was the life. I looked back to see my mother and Jack walking back into the house. I saw a curtain drift shut on the third floor and smiled up at my father. I was on my way to settle an old score.   
  
It hadn't been my score to settle. There shouldn't even be a score.   
  
I didn't create this mess. But by God, I was going to be the one who cleaned it up.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Thirty six hours can be very long when they are uneventful.   
  
I left Argentina braced for an adventure, ready to face a foe who threatened my family and my security. But once I was aboard the plane, the hours seemed to crawl by, leaving me with my adrenaline rush. And so I forced myself to relax, to smile, to read and watch the in-flight film.   
  
I changed planes in Bogotá, Columbia, and flew to Dalles, then Chicago, and finally to Washington, D.C. I affected a southern accent, then a Scottish one, passing through customs and various gates without complication. My red hair shimmered in the D.C. sunlight as I hailed a cab. I rode in silence to the bank where a cellular phone and $6,000 cash waited for me.   
  
Don't ask how I got the money. You don't want to know.   
  
I retrieved my belongings without trouble, checked into a hotel and headed for the Air and Space museum as I dialed information.   
  
"Information, how may I help you?"  
  
"I'm looking for a Mr. Marcus Verger," I said, offering up my best Southern Belle.   
  
"One moment please."  
  
A pause, and cheerful music. Then...  
  
"There are seven numbers listed for Mr. Marcus L. Verger."  
  
"And I'll bet none of them are his home number."  
  
"His home number is unlisted."  
  
I pondered this for a moment. The operator was a woman, and I had nothing to lose...  
  
"Let me guess. You have access to his home number."  
  
"I do, but I can't give it to you. I could lose my job."  
  
"I understand," I said. "The truth is, Marcus and I had a brief relationship, and I'm a little pissed off that he broke it off."  
  
"Honey, don't I know how that is."  
  
"You might know the company...they send dead flowers to your ex? I really want to fry him, but the bastard never gave me a phone number or an address. Doesn't want the wife to find out about me I bet. But I understand. Could you just..."  
  
"Well, I can't give you a phone number, but his address is public information. You want that?"  
  
I smiled. "Perfect."  
  
From there on it was simple. I called the office of a senator who was known to have been bought off by the Verger family on more than one occasion and convinced the receptionist to peek at her boss's little black book. I settled down in full view of the Washington Monument, punched in a few digits and waited.   
  
"Verger residence. How may I direct your call?"  
  
A man this time. I didn't bother with an accent.   
  
"Marcus Verger please."  
  
"And whom shall I say is calling?"  
  
"Just put me through."   
  
For reasons that yet remain unknown to me, that authoritative tone works with everyone. I was put through with a minimum of fuss.   
  
"Verger."  
  
"Mr. Verger. This is Alexandra Lecter."  
  
A long pause. I studied the capitol while Marcus gathered his wits.   
  
"Miss Lecter. What a surprise."  
  
"Not going to ask what you can do for me?"  
  
"I hadn't planned on it."  
  
Marcus had a deep, cultured voice, but I knew he wasn't any older than me. Only a year and a half older, which made him twenty. But age was irrelevant to the game we were playing.   
  
"I assume you are tracing this call," I said.   
  
"It would be foolish to miss this prime opportunity."  
  
"It would indeed. After your hired guns made such a mess out of the last one."  
  
"Good help is so very hard to find."  
  
"True."  
  
Another pause. I fancied that I could hear the crackling of the trace flowing down the phone line. I knew the instant he made the connection.   
  
"The Washington Monument? Touring the city, Alexandra?"  
  
"Nursing a grudge, Marcus?"  
  
He drew in a sharp breath and then laughed. The laughter was strained.  
  
"My men will be arriving shortly. I hope you will accept my invitation to stay at my home for the duration of your visit."  
  
"I'm very sorry, but I've made other arrangements."  
  
A pause while Marcus turned his options over in his head. I would likely be gone before his men could get to me, and that meant that he needed to try another tactic.  
  
"Dinner, then? The Northern Aurora, and oh, say, 7 p.m.?"  
  
"I'd be delighted. Ta ta."  
  
I ended the call and walked briskly toward the metro station. As I rode the escalator down I saw that three men in dark suits and reflective sunglasses had descended on the bench where I had so recently been sitting. They scanned the area, and I shook my head. I had three hours, and I had some shopping to do. And a few phone calls to make.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The Northern Aurora was an elegant black tie only restaurant frequented by upper crust D.C. and by those who could afford both the clothing required for admittance and the astronomical price of the food. I, of course, could afford both, but I was willing to bet that paying for the food wasn't going to be an issue. I was betting that Marcus Verger was an old fashioned gentleman, one who would drug me rather than club me on the head and drag me off to his limousine.  
  
I entered the Northern Aurora in a figure-hugging gown that was beaded from top to bottom. My strappy black heels and perfume combined to make certain that doors opened for me and that every possible courtesy was extended. I had banked on that as well.   
  
"How may I help you, miss?" the maitre de asked, the model of propriety and discretion.   
  
"I'm meeting Marcus Verger," I replied, equally polite. The maitre de nodded and handed me off to a waiter.   
  
"Marco will show you to the table. Mr. Verger is waiting for you."  
  
I nodded. It was 7:00 on the dot.   
  
I was shown through tables, up a flight of stairs and to the back of a balcony, where alcoves were hung with draperies and lighting was dim. This was a place for lovers, illicit or otherwise. I was dropped off at an alcove where the curtains were already drawn. I smiled slightly and pushed one of them aside, knowing that I was walking into some kind of trap. One of the first things my father taught me is that walking into a trap is all well and good, but one must have a way out of said trap.   
  
It was a lesson I never forgot.  
  
The alcove was spacious, more so than I would have imagined. The table was set with gleaming silver and nearly translucent china. And in the shadows, a man stood.   
  
"Alexandra."  
  
"Marcus."  
  
And just that easily, the dance began. Marcus stepped into the light, and I sized him up. He had dark hair with lighter highlights, tall and muscular, dressed in a tuxedo that looked like it had been made for him and, if we were being honest, it probably had. I was glad that I had taken the extra time and money to spring for a professional hairstyle and manicure that afternoon. I might have felt like the poor cousin otherwise.   
  
Marcus reached out a hand, the palm tilted slightly up. I slipped my hand, palm down, into his and was unsurprised when he raised my hand to his lips and grazed my knuckles with a kiss. It was more audacious than I had assumed him to be; I'd been betting that he would have placed the kiss in the air just above my hand.   
  
"Won't you sit down?"  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Marcus pulled out my chair for me and made sure I was comfortably seated before returning to his chair.   
  
"Are you enjoying your stay in Washington?"  
  
"The city never ceases to enchant me," I replied. I could play the pleasant social interaction game just as well as he could.   
  
"You have red hair. My informants were sure that it was brown."  
  
"I wear many faces, and many hair colors to go with them."  
  
"You look remarkably like your mother, save for the lack of a certain beauty mark on your cheekbone."  
  
"My mother has no beauty mark. She has a badge of honor, and a remnant of her courage."   
  
"Of course," Marcus said, leaning in to the table. "I've taken the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don't mind."  
  
"As I have no intention of eating anything you place in front of me, I don't mind in the least."  
  
"You don't trust me."  
  
"You are not so naïve as to believe that I would."  
  
We sat in silence for a few moments, preparing our next offensive/defensive battle of words. The food was delivered, steaming and smelling wonderful with a bottle of wine chosen, I was certain, to compliment the meal. I studied the presentation.   
  
"Perhaps you can tell me what prompted your phone call this afternoon," Marcus said, lifting a fork.   
  
"Of course I can."  
  
"But you won't."  
  
"I'm sure you've worked it out for yourself."  
  
"You wanted to set up a meeting."   
  
I nodded. "And now I have. Mission accomplished."  
  
"And yet you refuse to eat."  
  
"And to stay at your house. One refusal is directly linked to the other."  
  
"You assume that I would use you to get to your father."  
  
"If I assume too much than I shall leave now, and never darken your doorway again."  
  
"It would be a great pity never to see that lovely silhouette again."  
  
I smiled slightly at that and lifted my wine glass. I studied the color and sniffed the bouquet, noticing that Marcus was drinking wine from the same bottle. That might mean that the wine was not drugged. I preferred not to take the chance, and set the glass down again.   
  
"You are very distrustful."  
  
"You kidnapped my brother. Actions of that sort tend to lead to a dissolution of trust."  
  
"So does the murder of a relative."  
  
"Your uncle had already tangled with my father once in his life. For many, that would be enough. But your uncle tempted fate, drawn on by hatred and the desire for revenge. Mason Verger was a fool."  
  
Silence again. I sat back in my chair, waiting to see what the result of my gamble might be. Marcus watched me carefully, sitting back in his chair, food forgotten.   
  
"You have come to me, of your own free will, drawn by my opening gambit. You are here, in Washington D.C., and your father will follow you."  
  
"Then you do want my father dead."  
  
"Oh, yes. I certainly do. It is a matter of honor, and vengeance. My father, as I am sure you know, was not the epitome of an upstanding citizen. He was a criminal, he was insane, and he took a large risk that resulted in his death. But your father is also a criminal, and insane. My father died, and so too shall yours."  
  
"You assume a great deal."  
  
"And you too little. Andre."  
  
I turned in my seat to see another man emerging from the shadows. A secret entrance to the alcove, hidden by the curtains, I had no doubt. Andre was the same man I had fought on the plane, one of the two who had held my brother. I stood and walked to a more open space.   
  
"Please don't wrinkle the dress. It cost a fortune," I said calmly, hiding my growing apprehension. Andre looked at Marcus and Marcus nodded. I heard a slight waft in the air before the world went dark.   
  
*****************  
  
To Be Continued...(Silence of the Lambs theme plays) 


	8. Civil Danger

Disclaimer : I own nothing of any interest. Except my copy of 'Red Dragon'. And they'll pry that from my cold, dead hands. So it wouldn't be worth the time to sue me. 

Under Attack By Lyra Matsuoka Rated PG-13

Chapter 8 : Civil Danger

The first negative thing about being hit on the back of the head is that one never knows where one is going to wake up. Or how many body parts will still be attached when one does wake up.

I heard music first - soft, strumming, some sort of a guitar. Complimented by a harp and soon...yes, there it was, a piano. The chords wept in the air as I slowly drifted back to consciousness. I was lying on a soft, yielding surface, and the fabric beneath me slid across my skin.

Silk. Silk sheets. I opened my eyes slowly. I lay on a king sized bed in a room that looked like something out of a magazine. I knew the instant I opened my eyes that a highly skilled interior decorator had handled this room. There were no flaws - no two colors clashed. Everything blended perfectly. Of course, this isn't particularly hard to do with deep, cool colors. The furniture was black, of course. The carpet a pearly gray and the paintings that hung on the walls were generally in the same vein. There were some highlights using emerald green and sapphire blue. And I, in my deep sapphire blue gown, lying in the middle of the bed, became yet another accent.

I was alone. I'd known that before I opened my eyes. There were hushed voices somewhere...but nowhere particularly close. I smiled slightly as I reached up to assess the damage. I had been right. The food had been drugged, and when I refused to play along Marcus had been forced to resort to slightly more drastic measures. But Andre had been careful - there was a only a slight bump at the base of my skull, and a glance at the clock sitting next to the bed told me that I hadn't been unconscious for long. Two hours, if my calculations were correct. I lay still for several moments, assessing my present situation and possible options.

"Good evening, Alexandra."

I turned my head on the pillows to look at Marcus Verger. He was still in black tie, and he was holding a glass of water, which he offered me. I sat up slowly, watching for signs of nausea or disorientation and when I felt none, I took the glass and walked slowly into the bathroom. He followed me with enough time to watch as I poured the water down the drain, rinsed out the glass and filled the glass again using the tap.

"Distrustful as ever, I see."

"I had no reason to trust you two hours ago. Now I have a reason to distrust you. Surely you won't begrudge me that."

"You are welcome to distrust me. But it might grow awkward for you to continue in this vein, especially when it comes to eating."

"I can't believe you would shed any tears over my death, Marcus," I said, a wry smile on my lips.

"It isn't you I'm after, Alexandra."

"But it will be you my family is after. Are you quite sure you're capable of handling Hannibal Lecter, Marcus?"

"You have no notion of what I'm capable of."

"Untrue," I said, moving back into the bedroom. I knew he would follow me. He had to.

"I know a great deal about you, Marcus. As much or more as you know about me, I expect. After all, you knew enough to send your men after me."

"And you jumped off a cliff. Tsk, tsk, Alexandra. Surely being a guest in my house is not so terrible as all that."

"Your home is lovely. Compliments to your interior decorator."

"Thank you. She charged a small fortune, but the effect is well worth it."

"How much money did you put on my father's head?"

"As much as it takes. There is no specified amount."

"And unlimited supply of funds, presumably attracting the top bounty hunters in the world, and you haven't managed to keep a single one of us yet? How terribly frustrating for you," I drawled, sinking onto the bed. Marcus didn't sneer, but his gaze hardened a bit.

"Playing with fire, Alexandra. You might get burned."

"I think I can handle whatever comes my way."

"I have no trouble believing that. Now, you haven't had the chance to eat tonight, and you must be hungry. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"

"Our last dinner date ended so poorly. Whatever makes you believe that I will give you a second chance?"

"Arrogance."

I laughed at that. I admired honesty, and I admired audacity. Marcus Verger had them both in spades; in a different situation, we might have been friends. It was that thought, and the manners that had been trained into my very soul, that made me nod once and take the arm that he offered. I set the water glass down on a mahogany side table, careful to place it on top of a linen doily. There was no excuse for scarring such lovely wood. As Marcus escorted me through the hallways of his home, I attempted to determine where exactly we were. There were no sounds, no traffic or airplanes. Nothing. That meant we were out in the country and likely not near a highway. This was not good. Not bad, but not good. I wasn't exactly dressed for a late night trek across empty fields. We came to a sweeping staircase and walked down, my hand trailing lightly on the banister.

"We wouldn't happen to be at Muskrat Farm, would we?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I've always wanted to see that house. It is, after all, an intricate part of my family history."

"As it is mine. But since you ask, no. We aren't at Muskrat Farm. I haven't been there since I was a child - there are ghosts in those halls. No, this is my own home."

"It's lovely," I said, assessing the lower story carefully. It was one large, open space at the foot of the stairs, and I noticed Marcus placed a hand at the small of my back to guide me around the stairs and toward the back of the house, away from the front door. I was willing to go along with that, for the time being anyway, and so I devoted myself to appreciating the modern art adorning the walls and the elegant table setting that greeted us as we entered the dining room. I was hungry, but I knew that it was likely that a drug was lurking in the food. Though I wasn't dressed appropriately to make a run for it, I knew that Marcus wouldn't count on my wardrobe keeping me in his home. I had two choices. I could eat the food, enjoy myself and accept being drugged, or I could attempt to deduce which it was, pretend to eat that item and hope that I was right.

"Please, be comfortable," Marcus said, pulling a chair out for me. I smiled and sat down gently, scanning the table casually as I sat. Marcus reached for a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. He turned back to me and handed me the bottle for inspection. As best I could determine, it hadn't been tampered with, but just to be on the safe side I opened the bottle myself, poured a small amount into a crystal glass and handed it to Marcus. Without pause, he took the glass, drained it, and held it out for more. This time I poured us each half a glass and joined him. The fact that neither of us were of age to drink was apparently irrelevant; I certainly wasn't averse to having a glass with dinner. The courses appeared one after the other, and I made certain to mix them thoroughly and to watch until Marcus took the first bite. I kept this up for the first three courses, and finally began to simply accept the food that was served. Marcus noticed immediately.

"Beginning to trust me, Alexandra?"

"You've been very clear with me up until now. You've never drugged me. Knocked me out, kidnapped me, yes. But you've never drugged me. If you were going to do so, you'd have done it by now."

Marcus seemed to accept this, and we continued on with our conversation. It wasn't until dessert that I saw something suspicious. I had memorized the file my father provided me, and I knew that Marcus Verger was allergic to strawberries. And there, on the table before us, was a chocolate dessert with dollops of pink mousse on the top. I was willing to bet a large amount of money that was strawberry mousse, and that only the strawberry mousse was drugged. I knew that Marcus was only mildly allergic, so eating the mousse would likely cause him discomfort of some kind, but wouldn't cause a violent reaction.

Marcus served the dessert himself, and took the first bite, avoiding the mousse. I did the same. By the time my fork reached the mousse, I had a plan. It wasn't a good plan, nor was I certain it would work. But I had to give it a try. Marcus was watching me closely, and I was beginning to think that I would have to eat the mousse and get it over with when his cellular phone went off. I dropped it down the front of my dress. I managed to do this without wincing. I promptly stuck the fork into my mouth.

Marcus turned back, and the mousse was gone. I smiled at him and finished the dessert. He did the same. When the coffee was gone, he escorted me back to my room.

"I assume I'll be spending the night?"

"Naturally. You'll find everything you need in the bathroom attached to your room."

I smiled, and frowned slightly as my limbs began to feel heavier than normal. The lamp that I was looking at seemed farther away, and as I reached for the wall I felt someone catch me before I fell and lift me up. I was being carried down the hall, and I looked back at Marcus, who had managed to sit down in a chair and was now being pulled to his feet by what looked like a bodyguard. He had drugged himself to drug me. I tried to smile, but the darkness claimed me before I could.

* * *

I awoke in the same room I had been in before, lying on the same sheets. The only difference was the lack of music. It was not morning as yet, but I was clambering up through the drugs to consciousness. I was neither rested nor exhausted, as has always been the case when I've been drugged in the past. I rolled over and noticed that I was clad in a white silk nightdress. Who had dressed me in it did not bear thinking about. I opened my eyes slowly to see the blank wall and listen to the sounds of night outside the window.

And, in a flash of melodramatic perception, I knew I wasn't alone.

I knew that the moment I opened my eyes. There is a subtle difference in the air whenever another person is in the room, and I knew that someone was watching me sleep. I rolled over slowly and faced the room.

My father was sitting in an armchair near the door.


End file.
